


Waste of Space

by NiscuitGravy



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Eating Disorders, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Self-Hatred, Self-Indulgent, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29261736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiscuitGravy/pseuds/NiscuitGravy
Summary: Prompto wishes he wasn't awake right now. It's far too early for breakfast.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Waste of Space

03:06.

Fuck.

A bellow of defeat shakes a frail ribcage. Even to the abused ears of a sharpshooter, it's loud enough to wake Shiva from her slumber. 

Prompto wishes he wasn't awake right now. It's far too early for breakfast.

He grasps the blankets over his body, glancing around the tent at the other three as they resume their soundless rest. A part of him wants to sigh in relief - after all, how _carnal_ it is of him to be hungry at such an hour. Yet another part of him wants to grasp his pillow and groan - in some pitiful sense, he'd feel just a bit more validated if someone _other_ than his own feral belly agreed he could use a snack.

Prompto decides on silence. 

The emptiness in his stomach snakes up his throat, choking him until the hunger pangs beat in his chest. The puny dinner of two ounces of salmon, two ounces of plain broccoli and a "treat" of a single ounce of quinoa had, once again, failed to sate him until morning. He whines to himself as he picks up his phone, hoping that it's miraculously time to rise and for him to eat his carefully calculated breakfast of egg whites and an apple. 

….

03:08.

_FUCK._

Gladio stirs, grunting as his breathing cycles into heavy snores. What a fucking _man_ . Gladio always reminds him of that. Prompto will never be a _man_ . He'll always be a _boy_ , a step above a helpless infant. Gladio will wield his sword in battle, ablaze with unbridled energy and strength. Prompto will saunter his way onto the scene, his bones frozen as he pulls his trigger and _hopes_ the bullet meets its target. Gladio will strike with intentional precision, while the blood in Prompto's head will rush to his feet and leave nothing but blinding colors in its wake. Prompto will falter, and Gladio will criticize him. Prompto will weakly refute, and Gladio will simply tell him to _stop bitching_.

Ignis hums, curling intob the crook of his arm. How beautiful, graceful and _competent_ he is, even while he sleeps. Prompto will never be any of those things. He's coming to terms with the fact that anyone who _is_ those things would never even spit in his direction, let alone want him. (That is, if someone as regal as Ignis would even do something as atrocious as spitting). The advisor had taken a vow to devote his life to his king, steadfast and faithful. But he _didn't_ vow to devote his life to the clodhopping cling-on that was Noct's best friend. As far as Ignis is concerned, Noct would have been better off with a dog. It's not as if Prompto is much more than a dog - he's an impulsive, ravenous invalid who submits to his master, and lives to count the hours to his next meal. When that time finally comes, Ignis will prepare a decadent spread, and knowingly decrease the portion served to Prompto as per requests. While he's grateful that Ignis abides by his wishes, him doing so without complaint only validates the fact that he need be watching his weight. Prompto will already have calculated each calorie and macro nutrient in that portion, savoring each bite as if it were the greatest feast on all of Eos. Gladio and Noctis will pile a mountain of food upon their plates and eat until they are satisfied. Prompto will eat his toddler- sized portion, enviously watching from the prison of his own genetics. If ever there is a moment that Prompto seeks the key to release himself from the fetters of restriction, Ignis sternly patronizes him - _he wouldn't wish to put on weight, would he?_ Prompto will ruefully chuckle, rightfully put back in his place. Ignis will turn away. The hurt in Prompto's heart will fester with each second of successive silence - the man's very _presence_ makes him feel like a bumbling failure. 

Noctis is sprawled like a starfish over the bedroll, mouth agape and looking like everything but the majestic king of Lucis. Yet, here he is, the apple of everyone's eye. While Prompto could never bring himself to covet his best friend, he couldn't help but realize that he was only able to call Noct his best friend because he'd pushed himself to this point to even be _acceptable_ to the prince. If Prompto were acceptable now, then he'd have been _repulsive_ before - two dangling chins, the stench of weight permeating his surplus flush. If Prompto were anywhere near adequate enough to be in this very tent, to be seeing Noctis to the altar, it's only after his rigorous training to become a useful gunman. Prompto is truly an imposter to the royal line - it's evident in every conversation between the other three that flew over his head, in every memory shared from their days of youth. Prompto could pass for _acceptable,_ and that's as good as he'll ever be. _Good enough_ for Noct. But nothing more. 

The familiar wave of hypoglycemic nausea washes over him, leaving him to swallow the saliva pooling under his tongue. 

_Fuck it all._

Fuck his physique. The amount he can consume in comparison to the others is laughable, especially when forced into a God-forsaken diner. He's no stranger to keeping a lid on his silent crisis as he spends his caloric budget on an appetizer in place of a meal, resigning himself to a night of voracity just like this one. While Gladio can eat like a starved dualhorn and gain chiseled muscle, Prompto gains a pinch of fat even _breathing_ in the presence of whatever delicacy Gladio mows down. 

Fuck being foolish. He knows he's got some growing to do. He knows that the words from his mouth are as pitiful as they are humiliating, and half the time he speaks he wishes he hadn't. He yearns for the ability to learn from this, to become callous and stoic in response to being regarded as a fool. But fools never learn. While Ignis can remain silent and calm and utter pearls of wisdom upon opening his mouth, Prompto speaks his mind. And his mind is nothing but ignorant, puerile shit.

Fuck being alone. Of course, solitude is pleasurable. But there's a fine line between solitude and desolation, and Prompto knows he's headed for the latter. Noctis will wed Lunafreya. And then, he'll be gone. Prompto knows that Ignis and Gladio will be ever at his side, royal advisor and shield. But Prompto is a _friend_ , and no aristocratic blood runs through his veins. Noctis will graduate to bigger, more kingly things. Ignis and Gladio will walk tall behind him. But Prompto, low-born as he is, will diminish to starving alone in his apartment. The others will live their existence with purpose and honor. The best Prompto can ever do with the rest of his existence is _not be fat._

Prompto watches the other three through the blur in his eyes. He finally brings them to close, letting a melodramatic, stinging tear drip down into his ear. He knows his greatest adversary in this tent is himself, the only one who cares enough to quantify his worth. The only voice he can truly never escape from. 

At least the others only _think_ he's a waste of space.

But he himself _knows_ it.


End file.
